The sociopath smiles
by Nothingatall11
Summary: The downside being that he might start playing his violin in the middle of the night or, after particularly bad days, firing shots at the smiley on the wall. It even has a name, some days. Mycroft, being a popular choice. Or Lestrade.  NOT A ONESHOT!
1. Chapter 1 Insomnia

So the psychosomatic leg thing stopped. Thanks to Sherlock and the insanity that living with him brings. His cane now lies forgotten somewhere under the couch, tossed there in disgust after being inefficient as a prop in one of Sherlock's experiments. John had wanted to get it out of there, just in case, but there were other things underneath the sofa as well. And whatever they were, John had the feeling he just didn't want to know. Either way, he was running around like a maniac these days, with no time to think about the fact that he probably should be hurting, so he didn't really need it.

The nightmares, however, didn't stop. He was still a soldier, only now the location of the war could just as often be on the streets of London as Afghanistan.

So sleeping, yeah there hadn't been much of that. He was beginning to think that this sleep thing really wasn't for him. Sure his head might not be as clear as it should nowadays, but it wasn't like he was any match for Sherlock anyway.

Another upside (and sometimes downside) to living with Sherlock was that he regarded sleep like a mostly unnecessary evil, that he only gave in to when being awake bored him.

The downside being that he might start playing his violin in the middle of the night or, after particularly bad days, firing shots at the smiley on the wall. It even has a name, some days. Mycroft, being a popular choice. Or Lestrade. Not John, not yet, but he's just kind of waiting for it.

The upside being that whenever he wakes up, sweating and trembling from the adrenaline shock, he doesn't have to sit alone, staring at the cracks of the wall and willing the screams away from his ears.  
Instead he can walk downstairs, stare at whatever Sherlock is doing until he acknowledges John (which might take hours, but his experiments are always interesting. Disgusting, perhaps, but never boring) and then they might talk for a bit. Okay so it's mostly Sherlock doing the talking, while john asks all the dumb questions.

Sherlock has a way of making you stay in the present whenever he's around. When he comes rushing in, spouting facts like bullets and telling everyone just how brilliant he is, you can't help but get sucked into whatever problem's at hand. Everything else seems less important, and John quite likes that.

And there's no denying that as the good soldier he is, John enjoys being ordered around.

"Throw me that cup of tea, would you?" Sherlock asks, while absentmindedly poking in the machinery of an old radiator.

It's 6 in the morning, and the gray shimmer of dawn is making the dark silhouettes of furniture and Sherlock a bit easier to make out in the apartment living room. He had tried to turn on the lights after waking up a few hours ago, but Sherlock had implied that if he went as much as near the switch the world would end. Or something to that extent, anyway.

"It's gone cold." John replies lazily from where he's curled up in the armchair. He's got one of his favorite knitted sweaters pulled over his pyjama's, and with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders he feels quite confortable. So he stalls, in order to avoid having to move.

"Good." Sherlock answers. He's wearing what John likes to think of as his "boring-suit". The Blue dressing gown, a long sleeved shirt , sweatpants and bare feet that makes john feel cold just by looking at them.

"Do I have to? I'm sitting quite confortable here." The fact that he's whining shows just how tired John really is at the moment. Sherlock makes an irritated noise.

"Well told you to _trow _it, didn't I?"

John watches the cup on the table for a moment, before sighing, getting up, handing over the cup to Sherlock before turning to walk back to the chair.

"Hang on," he says, turning back again. "You knew that I was going to do that, didn't you?"

"Obviously."

John sit back again.

" You know, one of these days I'm going to do something opposite to my nature, and then you'll look pretty stupid, standing there with cold tea all over your shirt."

Sherlock just smiles.

"No you won't."


	2. Chapter 2  Crime scene

**Thanks for the reviews! Here's another chapter for you:) Sorry about the general shortness of the chapters, but you'll get them more often instead! **

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Sherlock has a beautiful smile.

It might sound stupid and silly and bloody gay, but that's what John thinks.

With the bone structure of a horse, legs and arms all over the place and piercing alien eyes, the first impression of Sherlock is harsh and cold. And John knows he can be. He's a self-proclaimed Sociopath, after all. And the fact that he is terrifyingly good at mimicking feelings doesn't help his case much. So yes, he can fake a smile. He can fake a _brilliant _smile that makes everyone in the room want to know what the hell he's grinning about.

But there are times, however, when Sherlock is smiling simply because he's happy.

This is one of those occasions.

He barely sees it in the dusk of the room, but he can definitely hear it in Sherlock's voice. Even the sound of it is beautiful. Which annoys John and his non-poetic mind.

But that smile, that genuine smile seems to appear more often lately, and John takes it as a sign that the intelligent man is beginning to trust him. He wonders if Sherlock has ever had any friends, and finds it unlikely. He wonders who, except himself, would ever stand to live with Sherlock.

Then he can't help but marvel at the fact that he was smiling because of John. Not because of a case, not because of a trail of thought, but because of John.

The Cellphone beeps and the moment is gone. John folds it away in his brain marked as "Me being sappy again" and decides to forget all about it. Sherlock is already standing in the doorway, fully dressed in overcoat and his usual scarf, looking impatient. John finds that he's managed to get himself into some regular clothes as well, only he looks a bit more disheveled than the always proper Sherlock. They have a case, obviously. John is already thinking of how to phrase the beginning of his next blog when they arrive at the crime scene.

It's a bloody mess, literary, but Sherlock isn't fazed. He finds the scene just as exciting as any other crime scene would. The fact that the gore doesn't make him _more _exited makes John feel a little relieved. Once again he has to remind himself that Sherlock isn't a psychopath, but the opposite. Where a psychopath enjoys blood and pain, Sherlock couldn't care less. It's the puzzle that's important.

The victim, a 34-year old male, has been hit by a huge block of stone, dropped from the roof of a church. Honestly, it's like Midsummer Murders came to London. Sherlock plays the role of Barnaby quite poorly, running around the body excitingly and not giving a rat's arse about the police technicians standing around him looking irritated.

"No no no no this is all wrong!" Sherlock hisses, still managing to sound quite cheerful, and walks around the corpse again. "The blood patterns don't fit, and really nobody has that good aim to hit a moving target with such a heavy object" He swirls his jacket around. Of course he isn't wearing one of the plastic blue overalls; even John has given that up by now. For someone who claims not to care about such things, Sherlock is pretty vain.

Lestrade watches him with the look of someone who's just waiting to be called an idiot. John can't really blame him. Something buzzes in Lestrade's pocket. It's a Text.

YOURE THINKING AGAIN

SH

"Giving up on human speech now, Sherlock?" Lestrade says with a sigh. The man in question is standing with his back against them, looking up the weather forecast.

"Quite a lot of wind too. John?"

"Well the boulder didn't kill him. He's been dead for a day or so."

"Cause?"

"Strangulation, I guess. Hard to tell with the.." He gestures to the way the boulder has completely squashed the head and throat of the victim.

"What, so someone placed a body here and then dropped a bloody stone on them from the roof?" Lestrade asks.

"More likely from the window," Sherlock answers, and is about to continue explaining just how brilliant he is when he's interrupted by yet another buzz from Lestrades Phone.

"What? It's not from me!" Sherlock says to the accusing looks of both Lestrade and John. Then there is another buzz, and it's not from Lestrades phone but from the phone of the tech guy behind him. Then there is another buzz, from the policeman by the perimeter, then a jingle from the girl next to him, and then John feels his own phone buzzing. Even Sherlock has got one, judging by how intently he's staring at the screen of his phone. The text is from a hidden number, untraceable too, John bets.

WRONG

JK

John locks eyes with Sherlock.

He's smiling again.


	3. Chapter 3  John is annoyed

**Stop asking me who JK is, its an original character and you'll know more later ok^^;**

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This smile is different.

Beautiful? Yes. Genuine? Probably. Terrifying? Hell yes.

Because John knew that smile and it always meant the same thing, that this case would prove interesting. Fun, if you are like Sherlock. Dangerous, if you're like John.  
Last time he saw that smile the case ended with a bomb exploding in his face. Not something he'd like to repeat.

"Somebody get me a trace on that number!" Lestrade yells, but Sherlock is already leaving.

"Hey-hey wait!" He yells after him, but is thoroughly ignored. John is half-jogging by Sherlocks side, trying to keep up with the strides of his impossibly long legs. He texsts something, and John can tell it's for Lestrade by the following curse yelled after them.

"Fine. Somebody get me the name of the company owning that crane!" Lestrade continues to his sergeants, before his voice is drowns in the noise of the street. John turns around to see that there is, in fact, a crane on a construction site not far from the church.

"What, he threw it from the crane?" He asks Sherlock as they get into a cab.

"Nope. But the construction crew are bound to know where you can rent a tail-lift truck close to here. Oxford street, please!" He continues to the driver, and returns to his cell phone.

"…and that's what he used?"

"Yes. Trail marks all over. Bit heavier than a car, and he'd need to be higher up than the roof of a truck."

"…So, JK? Any clues to who it might be?"

"Not yet. Might be an anagram." Then, aimed at the driver, "Trevor's heavy vehicles rental, please. It's on 167."

"What, are we going to go through all the records of people who have rented a tail lift truck the latest days?" John asks, incredulous. Sherlock hates paperwork; it consumes too much time for his restless mind. The cab pulls over

"No. You are." Sherlock says, and pushes him out of the car.

"Text me if you find anything!" He yells, before closing the door and driving off.

"…brilliant. Thank you, Sherlock, that was very thoughtful of you. " John mumbles darkly before turning to do what he's been told.

There are 7 different companies renting a tail-lift truck at the moment, and none of the names on the contracts have the initials JK. He writes them down anyway.

It's dark out by the time he leaves the rental place, and the London fog has returned with the waning of the wind. It's also bloody cold out.

John thinks back to his sappy thoughts of this morning, and finds them completely may be his friend and yes, some times he might even act like it, but in the end he always goes back to being something of a dick. It's in his bloody nature.

He calls Sarah on the way, deciding that he might need some time off from Sherlock, interesting case or not. She doesn't ask why, simply agrees to meet up in an hour or so. She's good like that, simply accepting things when he doesn't feel like explaining.

The apartment isn't empty when he stops by to get a change of clothes. Sherlock and Mycroft are sitting opposite of each other in the armchairs, having what looks like a staring contest...Or more like a staring death match, really.

"You're late." Sherlock says without looking away. This doesn't help John's foul mood the slightest. He drops the notes he made on the couch table as dramatic as he can (which isn't very dramatic. Hard to create drama with nothing but a small leather notebook).

"You should treat your pets with more respect, Sherlock. He might bite." Mycroft is smiling, while tapping the handle of his umbrella.

"Come on John, at least I didn't get you into court this time." Sherlock says, managing both to pretend not to hear Mycroft's question and answer it at the same time. John snorts, and is about to stomp off when his curiosity gets the better of him.

"Anything new on the case?"

"Not really. Two more murders." Sherlock answers, picking up a cup of tea without looking.

"What, seriously? More blocks of stone?" John has never been good at keeping up being annoyed when something is interesting.

"No. One shot in the head, the other half blown up with a small bomb. Both strangled beforehand."

"Any leads?"

"No, that's why he called me" Mycroft says, looking smug.

"I didn't call you." Sherlock says, sounding offended.

"You were about to."

John finds himself slipping back into his bad mood again. With the brothers like this, it could take hours before they get anywhere.

"Besides, there are leads. Just nothing I can put together. Yet."

"Whatever. I'm going over to Sarah's. Call me if you need me." He stops himself.

"Scratch that, I'm not running back to get your phone for you. Text me if you get any leads."

He walks out the door, having completely forgot about changing his clothes, when he hears Mycroft saying something. His stupid old curiosity makes him stop just outside the door, still within hearing range.

"..still in the closet, is he?"

Sherlock makes a sound that seems to John almost like a laugh.

"Oh, he doesn't even know he's in it"

Okay that is _it. _He opens the door again only to slam it against its hinges, before walking away into the sudden rain without bothering to pull up his collar.

John rarely gets angry but right now he's pretty god damned pissed. Screw Sherlock, screw him and his annoying brother. And this bloody case. And this fucking rain. John has had enough of the lot of it.

The date with Sarah is good, however. They talk about mutual interests and eat some good Italian food. Then they watch a movie. John is still pretty pissed, but he feels calm enough to return home to walk around the apartment and ignore Sherlock quite pointedly. Then he might sabotage some experiments, just for good measure. He says goodbye to Sarah, and they share a quick kiss. Sometimes it feels like Sarah sees him more as a friend than a possible boyfriend. This is something that makes John a bit worried usually, but tonight a friend is just what he needs.

The apartment is empty when he returns, which makes his anger loose a little steam. He doesn't feel like sabotaging Sherlock's experiments when he's not even there to see it. His coat is gone and there is a dropped over teacup on the floor, so he's probably run off after some new lead. John can't help but feel a little betrayed that he wasn't texted. Of course, that's when he hears his phone buzz from his jacket. He picks it up, expecting to see a text with a location from Sherlock, but it's not from him. It's from Mycroft.

**IS SH WITH YOU?**

**MH**

NO WHY?

JW

**HE ISN'T ANSWERING TEXTS**

**MH**

John isn't worried. But he's not angry any more either.

HE'S PROBABLY BUSY WITH THE CASE

JW

When the phone buzzes again he has to look twice to realize that it's not from Mycroft.

It's from Sherlock's phone.

WRONG

JK

_The room is boring. Stereotypically dark and glum and filthy, just the kind of room you'd expect to be kept hostage in. Once in a while, Sherlock would like to be kidnapped and taken to something interesting. Like a submarine. Or Buckingham palace. This was subterranean, judging from the sound of the subway from somewhere above, and the sound of water places him close to the Thames. Old service cellar perhaps? Either way, it was all terribly cliché, and something of a disappointment. With someone who can make Sherlock run around in circles for several hours without finding out who he is, Sherlock was hoping for something more interesting. He tries to wrestle out of the plastic holding his hands against an old pipe, but finds it impossible without sustaining quite a lot of damage to his wrists. He's not quite ready to go that far yet. The blindfold is even harder to do something about. He decides that his next experiment is going to be about training his eyelids so that next time he'll be able to blink his way out of a blindfold. Shouldn't be impossible._

_A door opens somewhere in front of him, and he turns towards the sound. Someone enters the room and the echoes of the footsteps on the floor tell Sherlock that he is in a bigger room than he first suspected. Hands pull off his blindfold, and he finds himself staring into the eyes of his captor._

"_JK, I presume?" He says with a smile._

_Finally, he thinks, something interesting._


	4. Chapter 4 All about John

Thanks for all the lovely Reviews! And so many people added this to story alert! This made me inspired to write today too:)

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It's been 4 hours since Sherlock got himself kidnapped and no, John is still not worried. Sherlock is smart enough to get himself out of whatever trouble he's gotten himself into.

Continuing with the investigation while he's away, however, wouldn't hurt anybody. And if John happens to find out where Sherlock might be, well, no harm no foul.

It's half past 3 in the morning, the kitchen table is stacked with papers and notes and his cellphone is filled with angry texts from the people he's been waking up to get information. In the chair opposite to him, Lestrade is looking tired. He joined John once he heard the news, and has been supplying endless case files and help from police contacts. Right now he's looking at some rather grisly picture of when they removed the block of stone from the first victims head (or what was left of it anyways) . Looking at his watch, he gives out a sigh and drops the pictures on the table.

"This is getting us nowhere. This is all just a mess, and even with the both of us, we're no Sherlock."

He has a point there, John tiredly admits.

"Look I know we're doing this to save him from his kidnappers," So much for denial, John thinks. "But why are we helping him, seriously? Let's face it, he's a complete bastard."

It's a fair question, and John thinks about it for a while, before he sighs.

"Yes, but he's a brilliant bastard." He says, not too happy about having to admit it.

And Lestrade can't really argue with that.

_So yeah, the room is just as stereotypical as Sherlock figured it would be. His captor, however, isn't.  
All right maybe if he'd been in an old James Bond movie the man in front of him would make a perfect villain. He's wearing some kind of old theater mask, probably by Venetian design, that partly covers up a nasty burn on his cheek. His clothes are all navy blue and probably tailored somewhere in Ipswich. The bad guys Sherlock deals with tend to be pretty normal looking, but with all the more interesting minds. _

_He smiles at Sherlock's question, but remains silent. His smile is curved, strange, as if he hasn't done much smiling in his life._

"_Well? What is it you want? Contrary to popular belief, I do not hold the answers to everything. Is it a mystery you want me to solve? Someone you need to find?"_

_JK laughs, before leaning against one of the pipes._

"_Sherlock Holmes, always the narcissist." His voice is rough, vocal chords probably damaged in the grenade blast that disfigured his face._

_"What makes you think," he continues, "That it's _you_ I'm after?"_

_Sherlock processes this new data, but finds no good explanation._

"_..Mycroft?"_

_JK lets out another laugh and smiles even wider. Sherlock grits his teeth. He _hates _being wrong_

"_And they told me you were a genius. Let me give you a clue. We share the same first name."_

_Sherlock feels his own eyes widen. This is a strange turn of events, and he doesn't like it._

_"…John."_

"Get some sleep John. We'll get nowhere as tired as this. Take the couch; I'll wake you up if I find anything."

It's been six hours since Sherlock was kidnapped, and John is feeling nauseous. He thinks about Lestrades suggestion and finds that he probably has to sleep. The letters on the papers are refusing to stay still when he looks at them and his head is pounding.

"All right. I'll try."

He lies down on the couch and pulls a blanket over his head. Good thing about having been in the army is that you learn how to fall asleep when you need to, no matter the situation.

Too bad they didn't teach you how to get away from your nightmares.

In his sleep he goes back to an old memory.

**He's back in the yellow light of the Afghanistan desert. He's in a temporary hospital set up in a larger tent, and there are several wounded people crying for his help. Donovan is lying on the ground in front of him, choking on his own blood. One of his legs and a big part of his abdomen has been severely damaged in a car bomb explosion. He's dying and there's nothing John can do, no matter how good a doctor he is. Too many internal bleedings. From the bed beside him another man is crying. It's Stevens. **_**That's weird. Stevens wasn't there when Donovan died. **_**He stands there, confused, before his doctor instincts kick in, and he runs to Stevens's side. But Stevens is already dead. A gunshot, clean through his head. John had been there, just beside him when it happened. **_**Then who was it that cried..? **_** Beside Stevens's body there is another. McAldwin. His face is completely crushed against the ground. In a flash, John remembers when McAldwin died. They had been hiding behind an old abandoned brick building when a grenade had hit the wall just above McAldwins head. He had been crushed in the rubble. **

**Someone is sitting beside McAldwin, shaking him violently. John grips his hands, makes him stop, and tries to look into his eyes but he keeps his head down.**

"**Stop it. He's dead."**

**The man finally looks at him, and his face is horribly burnt, eyes bloodshot and staring.**

"**You killed him."**

John wakes up with a gasp, the scarred man's face still fresh in his memory. The adrenaline shock kicks in again, and John searches the room for some comfort. But the room is cold, dark, and his only company is Lestrade, who's sleeping with his head on the kitchen table. He stands up, still half asleep, searching for… _Something. _

But he's not there.

He's not there to smile and make things better again.

And Johns leg hurts again.


	5. Chapter 5 Lost and Found

**Longer chapter today! Mostly because I ha a lot of plot to get in before the next smile (I aim to have one smile in the end of each chapter, as you might have notice, or as in the last one, the absence of it.) **

**Also, Reviews = love ^^**

**Only one more chapter after this one! ...I think:P**

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"_But why?" Sherlock has to ask. "If it's John you're after, why kidnap me? He has other people more close to him."_

"_You mean like dear little Sarah? Or Harry?" JK (he refuses to call this man John) seems to think about it for a while, before smiling that weird lopsided smile again. "No, that wouldn't work. See I want John to suffer. And before he met you, he was doing a good job at that. He had dates like Sarah before, and they never make him very happy. We both know he's looking for something in them that isn't there. Something likes a war."_

_He's a smart one, Sherlock has to give him that. However, he cannot bring himself to respect him. It's something about the way he talks when he mentions John, and making him suffer, that makes Sherlock feel a bit disgusted by the whole thing. It's the feeling he usually gets, when he meets someone so opposite yet very similar to himself. A Psychopath. _

"_No, it had to be you," JK continues, "because you provide him with distraction. A reason to live even, perhaps. He was almost happy for a while there you know. I couldn't let that happen." He's standing with his back against Sherlock now, and he has to fight the urge to try to get out of the plastic that ties his hands to the pipe overhead. His arms are tired, but he shoves it into the back of his mind. He's not going to get himself out of this one with brute force._

"_So, what, he was your doctor and he couldn't do anything about that scar of yours? Not much reason to strangle three people." He suspects some kind off annoyed reaction back from JK, but he just snickers._

"_Is that the best you can do, Sherlock Holmes? I'm disappointed." _

_He takes out a cellphone from his pocket. _Sherlock's cellphone.

"_Well, well. 13 missed calls from no other than Doctor Watson himself. He must miss you terribly. I think it's time we throw him some bait."_

Think like Sherlock, John tells himself. Sherlock would figure this out right away. He's still shaken after the dream, but Lestrade is awake now and John is not one to show weakness in front of others. Which his psychiatrist keeps telling him is a bad thing. He stopped seeing her after moving in with Sherlock, mostly because he didn't see the point. Now that the pain in his leg was back, however, he might have to go see her again. But before that he has a theory to test out, one that he doesn't like very much. The idea is that once Sherlock is back, the pain will go away. It's rubbish of course. People don't work that way. However he's not willing to let it go without testing it out.  
He's pacing the apartment floor supported by his old cane that he's just excavated from under the couch. He had been right about the other things under there. Knowing what they were would not have made _anyone _happy.

"Come on Lestrade, there has to be a connection."

"Between the people who were killed in front of you in Afghanistan and the murders here in London? Are you sure you're all right, John?"

"Yeah so it's a bit far-fetched, but just hear me out, ok?" Lestrade lets out a sigh but leans back and agrees to listen.

"Look, when I was in Afghanistan there were a lot of deaths. There's no way to get around that. But there was one pluton that got most of its men wiped out in just a matter of _days_, Lestrade. That's not very usual. First it was Dean McAldwin. Crushed under a ton of bricks. Then Morgan Stevens. Only 20 years old. Shot in the head. The day after, Mike Donovan, killed in an explosion."

Lestrade made a face that said "Okay, That sucks but so what?"

"Hang on; I'm getting to the point. The victims of the recent murders, they were all of middle-eastern descent, right? That just screams war veteran. And they follow the pattern. Big block of stone, headshot, explosion. That's a bit much of a coincidence, isn't it?" John is gesturing wildly with one arm, trying to get through to Lestrade without sounding like a paranoid war veteran. And it seems to work, because the man is finally looking interested.

"And then there is the man with the burn on his face. I can't remember his name, but he was one of my helpers in the field hospital, and he was a great guy. I mean he was helpful and bright, and was bound to become a great doctor. But the war got to him. He had three good friends that were always visiting him.  
They were Stevens, Mcaldwin and Donovan. When they died… I thought he could handle it. He seemed okay. Then one day I found him trying to strangle a civilian in the middle of a street. I stopped him, and was going to report him right away, but we never got away from the street. We were ambushed, and someone threw a grenade. I lost him in the mess afterwards, but I think he managed to get burned pretty badly. I got shot myself on that day, so I don't remember the details."

He catches his breath, trying not to show how trying it is to talk about, and swallows a few times. Lestrade doesn't notice (or he does and is kind enough to not show it), but he is definitely listening now.

"So, it might just be my memory running wild, but I can bet you that if you look up the name of the soldier who was badly burnt on that day, his name will have the initials JK."

Lestrade nods. It's gotten light out while John's been talking, and the rain is still drizzling on the windowsill. John realizes that he's probably not talked this much in a row for a very long time. He feels a bit exhausted, but also a bit high on his own findings. Maybe this is what Sherlock feels like, only _all the time._ It's a thought.

"Alright, I'll go back to the station and see if I can find some military records. Stay here and try to remember everything you can about the man. "He emphasizes on the words _stay here _as if he suspects John will disappear the moment he lets him out of his sight. On his way out Lestrade stops to look back at John.

"You know, you sounded so much like Sherlock just now it was almost scary." He stops, as if not quite sure why he said that, then he shakes his head, smiles, and he's gone.

For a few minutes, John allows himself to think about what would happen if he didn´t find Sherlock. (the fact that he could be d- you know more than just kidnapped, is a thought that he refuses to think) He has heard of cases where people who have lost someone important to them, who took after traits of the person they were missing. All to remind themselves of the one they lost. Was this what John was doing, trying to think like Sherlock, talk like Sherlock… Truth is he´s even sitting on the couch, which is usually reserved only for Sherlock. No, no this was getting absurd. If Sherlock wasn´t around he´d just be what he was before. Just plain old John. Sherlock hadn´t had _that_ much of an impact on him… right?

His thoughts are interrupted by a beep from his computer. _Sherlocks Phone. Someone has turned the GPS on._

Before he knows it, he´s in a cab heading for Westminster. The traffic is a nightmare and he´s never felt more impatient with the other inhabitants of London. When he arrives it´s nothing more than a dirty alley, with broken trashcans all over. The sound of Sherlocks phone when he calls it, muffled by the old rags it's hidden beneath, is one of the most depressing sounds John has ever heard.

Lestrade is speaking to him, through his phone that he doesn´t even remember answering, but his voice sounds faraway.

"John? Are you even listening? Where are you?" John shakes himself out of it, and makes himself answer.

"Um yes. Sorry. I´m in… Westminster. Followed Sh- followed the GPS signal. In his Phone. Only the phone here though."

"Oh. All right. But I have good news at least. The burned man. His name is John Krausse. You were right." John doesn´t answer. He´s just noticed a sign on the building next to the alley. It **says Carsons Real Estate. Now extra good prices on Warehouses.**

"Lestrade, I think I know how to find him."

"What? Really? How?"

"Oh it should be easy. You see I think he wants me to find him."

_Sherlocks arms are going numb. That's never a good sign. And water has begun dripping down his face from one of the pipes above. Trying to talk your way out of things, unfortunately, is not very easy when there´s no one to talk to. The moment he thinks this, however, the door opens again. JK walks in, looking smug. He sits down opposite to Sherlock on a small chair that he´d brought with him. Still quiet, he clasps his hands. Sherlock has never been good with silence._

_"So…old war buddies, you and John?" He asks. JK stiffens a bit behind the mask, but says nothing. Sherlock tries again._

"_You´ve done a great job at losing that Ipswich accent." This time the masked man smiles._

"_Tailor gave me away, I gather? Good. Now please, I´d love some quiet before John arrives."_

"_So that's what you expect? That John will come running to save me any minute now? I wouldn´t be so sure if I were you."_

"_What, you don´t think he can find his way here without your help? He´s not an idiot, no matter what you might think." _

"_I never thought he was an idiot," Sherlock answers, but it´s a lie. And JK knows it too._

"_Fine, I did. But most people are. You must have noticed that yourself." JK doesn't smile this time, but Sherlock can see the recognition in his eyes. Somewhere above the subway is making the pipes rattle._

"_But all things considered he is brighter than many. I do not, however, think that he´ll come to my rescue. He knows I can handle myself."_

"Yes but then again he´s a noble idiot." John Kraus answers, tilting his head to the side in a bird-like movement that is only more apparent with the long-nosed mask.

"That I am" John says, before slamming his cane into the back of Kraus´s head. Kraus falls forward, his mask falling off as John rolls him over to his back with his foot. The scar has healed rather badly over the years, and John understands why the poor bastard likes wearing a mask.

"A bit anticlimactic after all that buildup, don´t you think?" Sherlock says with half a smile, words possibly aimed at the man on the floor.

Leaving JK where he is, John hurries over to where Sherlock is tied up, a bit paler than usual but eyes as vigilant as always.

"Hello John." Sherlock says when a small pen knife works its way through the plastic around his wrists. John has to stand on the chair to reach up, and for once he is slightly taller than Sherlock. They have to stand pretty close so he has a hard time not hitting Sherlock with his elbows as he saws through the bonds.

"Sherlock." John answers, not sure why, as he feels a faint chill of the detectives breath on his neck. He admits to himself that this is quite uncomfortable. In every way.

"How did you find me?" Sherlock asks, sounding like always does, only perhaps a little tired.

"He left your phone in an alley next to an estate company, where he had rented this place in his own name. Didn´t take long to find out where."

"But you found out his name?"

"Yes we were in the army together, didn´t realize it at first but it was all clues for me you know, even the murders." He turns to look at John Kraus, still unconscious on the floor. " Blamed me for the death of his friends, I gather, and-" Finally the plastic gives in, and Sherlock can move his arms again. He places them on John's shoulders, and then runs one hand through his hair.

"Brilliant!" He says, and before he pulls John close for the most surprising kiss of his life,  
he smiles widely.


	6. Chapter 6 Out With A Bang

**Yeah so don't kill me after you've read this, please?^^; **

**There's one more part to it, so don't worry. :)**

**Thanks again for rewievs!**

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The kiss doesn't last long enough for John to figure out exactly what he thinks about this new development, but he does feel the slight sense of something missing when it stops. No time to panic about that though, because the reason it stopped was the gun that had just been placed against the side of Johns head.

"Cute." JK says, looking quite fine for someone who was knocked out by a cane to the head just minutes ago. He's even managed to put the mask on again making John wonder about just how long he was trying to sort out his feelings about the kiss.

"There's no need for that, Kraus," Sherlock says, his voice in its usual serious baritone. John remembers that he's always had a distain for guns. Unsophisticated, was his word for it. John always figured that in a crisis, a gun got you farther than sophistication.

"Lestrade is on his way with backup, you know." John says, searching Sherlock's eyes for a plan. The answer is nothing. Yet.

"I'm counting on it." John Kraus answers, smiling. Sherlock stiffens, still very close to Johns face.

"You have a bomb." He says. JK nods, and opens his jacket to show the explosives strapped to his abdomen. The thrilling sense of danger in John's gut, the one that he craves whenever life is too normal or too quiet, increases. He knows exactly how twisted it is, but the truth is that he loves moments like this. Sherlock, however, looks bored.

"So you commit suicide, kill off the person you blame for the destruction of your life, and some cops just for the hell of it. Not very original." Sherlock says, disappointment in his voice.

"Don't underestimate me, Sherlock. I told you I want John to suffer. Killing him would be easy." He takes out some more plastic bonds from his pocket, and hands them to the detective, before instructing him to tie John up against the pipe with them.

"I want you to live" he tells John "because I had to. You see I'm going to blow myself up, not close enough to kill you, but just close enough for you to get burned." He takes of the mask and leaves it on the chair. "And then you'll be what I am."

"What about Sherlock?" John asks, fighting against the restraints as JK turns the gun against Sherlock's head, backing away.

"Why should I leave you with a friend, when you didn't do so for me?" He drags Sherlock with him, to stand on a small X drawn on the floor with chalk.

"He won't be standing far enough away." John has decided that JKs smile is the complete opposite to Sherlock's, and that he hates it.

"And don't worry about your pet policeman; he'll be quite all right. I just need him to make sure you don't bleed to death afterwards. They should be here in about... 4 minutes. No more time to chat, I'm afraid." Slightly panicking, John tries to meet Sherlock's eyes, but he is still calculating. _Oh come on…_

_Sherlock thinks. There are very few ways out of this one he realizes. Had he been a noble idiot like John he'd thrown himself over JK, pushing him far enough for his small bomb not to hurt John. But then Sherlock would be dead. And that's never a very favorable option. The most logical thing to do would be to push himself away, in the moment before JK sets off the explosion, and then hoping that he'd get far enough away from the blast to survive. That idea would mean, however, that John would be badly burned. And that wouldn't be too good either. So maybe he can come up with a compromise. He might not be a noble idiot, but perhaps a noble genius? Calibrating the force of his arms and the blast wave of the bomb, he makes his descision._

Finally their eyes meet, and there is a smile there. Not in the lines of his mouth but in his eyes. And John doesn't like it. Because it's not a "I'm happy" smile. It's a "thank you for everything" smile.

Then Sherlock turns around, kicks JK in the abdomen, right on the detonator, sending him flying for a few seconds before the bomb goes off.

The silhouette of Sherlock, hidden behind the collar of his large coat, is the last thing John sees before the world turns too bright, and he only has time for one more thought.

_Sherlock, you __**idiot.**_


	7. Chapter 7 Experiments and results

**Sorry for the delay! Working on my webcomic takes up my time .**

**Anyway, last chapter! (though I might do an epilogue if anyone's interested?)**

**I can't believe I've written 7 chapters on this! It was just supposed to be a silly oneshot but it turned into an angsty long fic. Oh well, it was fun!  
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**Thank you for reading!:)**

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John Watson is working extra shifts on the hospital. There can be several explanations to this. One might be that he's low on cash this month, and that wouldn't be completely wrong. Or he might feel the need to work simply because he's bored, and that is kind of true as well. There are more probable reasons though, like the fact that he cannot _stand _the empty flat on Baker street, the dust that settles on the now abandoned experiments that he hasn't had the heart to throw away, or the empty couch with the blue robe still tossed over the armrest. Or the fact that his leg is giving him too much grief to allow himself to sit still or even think about anything except work.

But even though all of these are good reasons, and contribute to his decisions, the real reason John is working extra is because of the man that sleeps in room 230B. There have been a lot of whispers about it among the staff, and normally John would have been worried about his reputation.

Trouble is he cannot make himself worry about anything right now. Not that he's forgotten to pay the bill this month or that there's mold spreading from underneath the couch. Not even that Sarah hasn't called since… Since this madness started.

So he does his work, sometimes even more than that, and whenever he can he goes to room 230B.

John knows that the sedative will keep the patient out for another 12 hours, in additional to the other 3 days he's been unconscious, going in and out of surgery. The coat had turned out to be a great shield for the heat, for a coat anyway, and he'd only been badly burnt on the back of his legs. There'd be a red scar all over his back, but he'd live. Some of his hair had been burnt, but lying there, he looked almost fine in John's eyes. He's never seen the man so peaceful, and he hates it. He's supposed to look at everything with interest and seeing all the little things that no one else notices. He's supposed to insult everyone's intelligence just with a look and get excited over serial killers and make ridiculous dramatic gestures. He's supposed to smile.

John usually sits there for a while, looking through his chart over and over, before leaving to continue with his work. It might not make any difference, and his patient would laugh at him for doing something so silly when more important things can be done with his time, but he can't stay away. He needs to see him wake up before he accepts that he'll be fine.

He wakes up 5 hours before time. John is there, staring out of the window, when he opens his eyes.

"Phone" He demands. John hands it to him; he's had it in his pocket next to his own for the last few days. It's a bit burnt on the edges, but still functioning. Sherlock starts looking through the latest news, but the phone slips through his still weak hands. He throws his head back dramatically to the pillow, grimacing as he does. Then he smiles a bit and John feels the tension run out of him, and the last few days feel like nothing but a long bad dream.

"It worked." He says, as a matter of fact.

"You had doubts?" John says, leaning back in the chair.

"It was a 64% chance of success. I didn't have time to properly calculate the blast radius."

"So basically you did something stupid. I thought I was supposed to be the dumb one." John says, tapping the handle of his cane. Sherlock gives it a look but doesn't say anything about it.

"Well you are. Only in comparison though." John tries to feel insulted but fails.

"Anyway," Sherlock continues, "how long do I have to stay here?" He says it with the voice of someone expecting terrible news.

"Until tomorrow." John answers, and Sherlock groans at the ceiling.

"I can draw you a smiley in the ceiling and get you a water gun, if it helps." Sherlock gives out a laugh and John joins in, feeling completely fine for the first time in days. They continue their usual banter and John finds himself curling up into the chair, as if they are at home and he's in the arm chair in his favorite sweater and it's four in the morning. Then Sherlock starts coughing and he has to return to doctor-mode, but Sherlock swats him away.

"Oh don't fuss. It's just a cough." John checks anyway, but finds nothing unusual. He returns to his chair, but the mood has died and they sit silently for a while. Sherlock is trying to use his phone again and John thinks about the events leading up to the explosion.

"Why did you kiss me?" He asks. Sherlock just gives him a look before going back to his writing.

"I think I have the right to know." Sherlock sighs as he drops the Phone again. Then he looks at John.

"Because you wanted me to".

"What? "

"You've been in love with me for months." It's stated so matter-of-factly that John finds he's speechless. He opens his mouth to speak, swallows some air, then closes it again. He then manages a strangled "What?"

"It was quite an interesting study; you are quite good at denial. However I did get bored with it so-"  
John stands up, not sure whether he's pissed or angry or both.

"Another experiment then?" He says, grabbing his cane. Sherlock looks confused, like he doesn't understand why John is upset.

"Everything is an experiment John. Be reasonable, It's-" John has never heard Sherlock trying to apologize before so perhaps this is him trying, but he's still to mad about the whole thing to stop. In the doorway, however, he's forced to look back, because when Sherlock calls for him the instinct is always to answer.

"John. Wait."

"Sherlock." The consulting detective makes a face, and doesn't look away from his phone.

"You should know by now that I don't do anything unless I want to." He says, no particular feeling in his voice. But John knows that the voice without feeling is the real one. This meant that Sherlock wasn't pretending to be normal, and he trusted John to understand anyway.

"Not an experiment, more like a case," He continues. The rest of it is left unsaid, but John _knows. _He knows what a case means to Sherlock. _Everything._

"And what will you do once you solve me?" John asks, staring at his hand on the cane. He hasn't realized before but that has been a fear of his for a long time. That one day he will be nothing but a boring distraction to Sherlock. He has never had any problem with being the less dominant in a friendship. What he cannot stand however is not having a role to play, just being useless luggage that you keep around out of pity.

"I don't think I will. People keep changing, that's what makes things interesting." It's a good answer. John finds himself wanting to walk back to the chair, to return to the blissful calm he had just moments before. But there are still things that need to be said.

"I'm not gay." He tells the door.  
"I know." Sherlock answers right away "I thought so at first but I realize now that I was wrong. It doesn't change the fact that you love me though." John has to turn around to look at him questioningly after that. Sherlock is no longer looking at his phone, it lies forgotten by his knees, but at his hands. Not multitasking suits him even less than sleeping.

"Forget the labels. Labels told me I was incapable of experiencing human feelings. Labels told me that geniuses have to wear ugly clothes. Labels told me that I should be locked away at a mental institution. I am me. A person. And you love me. That's all you need to know."

John walks back to the chair, and sits down heavily. He has to think this through. Can he really accept that he's in love with Sherlock? Just the fact that he can think about it now is saying something. And if he is, can he really love someone who only admits to want to kiss him? Someone who places him on the same grounds as the puzzles he lives for? Somehow, that actually seems enough.

"You didn't expect me to be romantic, did you?" Sherlock asks, only half serious. John tries to imagine Sherlock being romantic and fails miserably, resulting in a sudden laugh.  
"Is that really so hard to imagine?" Sherlock manages to look offended for a few seconds before he joins in on the laugh. John feels himself warming up again, even though his mind still feels really confused.

"Do you really think this will work?" He asks Sherlock. "I mean I don't think either of us is very good at this relationship thing." Sherlock's eyes are still amused, but he looks up from his phone.

"I told you to forget about labels. Relationships are boring. We'll figure something out on our own. Now are you going to kiss me or are you going to sit there feeling uncomfortable for the rest of the day?"

It's awkward; he has to sit on the edge of the hospital bed, which isn't designed for more than one person, and Sherlock is just sitting there, waiting. Halfway there he realizes that he hasn't kissed anyone in a while and just getting closer to Sherlock's face while thinking about it is making him feel very very embarrassed. Then he pulls himself together, takes hold of the sides of Sherlock's ridiculously long face and kisses him carefully. He's never kissed a man before and wonders if it's supposed to be done differently, or if it's supposed to feel more or less or- Sherlock pulls away.

"Shut up" he says with a brilliant smile

"I didn't say anything!"

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

Then Sherlock kisses him back and he does stop thinking because coherent thought, it turns out, is way overrated when compared to being kissed by Sherlock Holmes.


	8. Epilogue  A Shared smile

**I finished it! I meant to write this earlier but once again i'm going to blame working on my webcomic. Well that and going to a party xD**

**Anyway, thanks for all the rewievs! I'm really happy that so many people wanted an epilogue! I wanted to wait for my friend to draw some fantart for this fic before I posted this, so I could give you guys a link, but I didn't want to put that pressure on her so... If she draws me one I'll post the link here!**

**..I can't believe this fic is done! Now what shall i do with my life? xD**

**Anyway, Here's some cozy winter fluff for you guys! Inspired by the snow outside my window right now:P  
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So the psychosomatic leg thing stopped. Again. The cane has disappeared somewhere under Sherlock's bed this time, and John has no intention of looking for it. Partly because the horrors under the couch were _nothing _compared to whatever was lurking under Sherlock's bed, but mostly because he wants to forget that he's ever needed it.

It's strange, John thinks, how very little has changed since the incident with JK. There's a lot of running around chasing bad guys (though John does most of the running since he has strictly forbidden Sherlock to do anything like that until he's properly healed), and Sherlock is still getting excited over serial killers and dead bodies and the speed of a bullet underwater. The experiments are probably getting worse, but John has found a way to make his morning tea without getting poisoned or covered in burnt oatmeal (that had been a fun day). He still sleeps badly, with nightmares waking him up around four or five most nights.

Then there are the small changes that make all the difference. Everyone still assumes that he and Sherlock are dating, and he's still denying it, only not with as much strength as before. He's never been much of a liar. He can get around the fact by telling himself that whatever it is he and Sherlock are doing, it's not very similar to any kind of dating he's ever tried. And then there's the fact that now, when he wakes up from the nightmares, he doesn't have to go very far to get to Sherlock, who seems to have settled in permanently in John's room. Sometimes he even sleeps there.

Currently, John is propped up in his favorite armchair, wearing his favorite striped sweater and a blanket over his feet, watching day television. It's been snowing outside for days, and he's very content to have the day off. The tea is getting cold, however, and he's contemplating shuffling over to the kitchen to make some more. The warmth of the blanket and the small entertainment that Extreme home makeover provides, however, persuades him to stay put.

Sherlock rushes in like a black piece of cloth, fluttering around the apartment and shedding snow all over. He grabs the laptop, throws himself down on the couch still wearing his overcoat, types a few words on the keyboard before staring at the screen with excitement. A little electrical sound from the computer causes Sherlock to frown, before throwing the laptop to the other side of the couch, and slumping down against the armrest.

"Did you solve it?" John asks without looking away from the TV. The latest case was one of the smaller ones, just a suspicious death at a mental hospital, and Sherlock had decided he'd handle it himself.

"YES." Sherlock says, clearly disappointed at the worlds inability to give him any real challenges. He curls up in his usual moping pose, grumbling to himself about nothing ever being surprising.

"TEA" Ye yells over his shoulder, before extending one of his impossible arms to look for the gun on the couch table. John grabs the cup and is about to move from the chair when he feels like doing something else.

Sherlock is a lot of things, but he never looks silly. However right now, halfway out of the couch with his arm in an awkward angle, incredulous look on his face, dripping with cold tea, he is getting pretty damned close.

"Surprising enough for you?" John says, before breaking into a laugh. Sherlock leans back into the couch, still quite shocked, with the tea dripping from his black curls. Then he smiles, and laughs.

"John Watson, you are the most incredible person I have ever met." He say before walking over to John, dragging him up from his chair with frightening ease, before pushing him into the nearest wall. It hurts a bit, but John really doesn't give a shit.

"I love you too, Sherlock" John says, and they share a smile that makes John think that life might never ever be boring again.

What happens after that is nobody's business but John's and Sherlock's, though because Lestrade came running in half an hour later, yelling about a bombing over at marble arch, it's hardly a well kept secret.


End file.
